"I am (Not) a Vegetarian"

I post this poem in honor of Matt and most of his family. I'll keep it in mind the next time I pass on the fleischkuechle (deep-fried dumplings filled with seasoned ground beef) at a family gathering.

"Why I am Not a Vegetarian"
By David Oliveira

It's not that I love animals less,
a case could be made I love them more—
and it's not that I love vegetables less,
I love them rare,
nothing more savory than raw celery
clawing and kicking its way down the gullet.

What I find hard to stomach is vegetarians.
If there is a vegetarian at the table, we all
get called in to be witnesses at a police lineup.
Cheese, eggs, fish,
each suspect paraded for identification—
pronounced innocent, guilty,
please take two steps forward.

And it's not like there is just one canon
for the good host to worry about.
Each vegetarian comes with a different menu.
Most won't eat anything that had legs,
though many eat fish, a fin nothing like a leg,
And eat shrimp, that have legs
which count as fins since they come from the sea
and taste so good in a Newburg sauce.
Oysters are problematic, without legs and from the sea,
but mostly eaten alive, like carrots.
A few pass on eggs because of the latent leg potential,
though pasta is usually okay,
the potential hard to realize under the marinara.

One friend doesn't drink milk
but asks for extra au jus
for his mashed potatoes. I haven't the heart
to explain what kind of vegetable the "au" is
or how many get squeezed to make a cup of "jus."

Don't misunderstand,
I admire those who stand on principle,
however vague, who doesn't admire
the resolve of, say, a Jerry Falwell,
to bear the weight of so much conviction
he can hardly walk to church.
Praise the Lord for limousines.
As my mother would say,
"Live and let live—
Just keep the details to yourself,
And pass the ketchup, please."

Nuggets of Matt Brilliance

I'll finish writing about my Magical History Tour soon. In the meantime...

When I was out shopping the other day, I bought Matt a new shirt. They had plenty of pink shirts, but I made sure to avoid those. I told Matt about this later.

Matt: "Real men wear pink, Rachie."

Me: "But you don't own anything pink."

Matt: "Exactly."

Magical History Tour: Monticello

Last week, I took advantage of my delightful summer schedule and visited a few historical hotspots that I'd been wanting to see since we moved here. I spent three days in and around Charlottesville, Virginia. I spent my first day at Monticello, the beautiful home of Thomas Jefferson.


"Monticello" means "Little Mountain" in Italian. The house is built on the top of a mountain, completely unheard of at the time it was built. Jefferson was raised in a home at the base of the mountain, but he loved spending time at the top of it as a child. When his father died and Jefferson inherited the land, he (read: slaves) leveled the mountain and built a house on top of it.

Jefferson was an avid reader. He once wrote, "I cannot live without books," and "...read good books because they will encourage as well as direct your feelings." He would visit this little shelter in the middle of his mile-long garden to read and watch the sun set.


I couldn't take photos of much of the interior of Monticello, but I was able to take photos inside the iconic dome. Before he became president, Jefferson was Ambassador to France and Secretary of State, so he spent much time in Europe. Jefferson modeled Monticello after the buildings in Europe, many of which had domes. The dome of Monticello served little purpose other than to be an architectural marvel.

That dome is most usually viewed from the back lawn of Monticello, and this view was reason enough for Jefferson to construct it.

It was the first dome built in the United States, and it inspired the domes of the U.S. Capitol and the University of Virginia. As the University's founder, Jefferson oversaw its construction from the porch of Monticello. His influence is pretty obvious.

Jefferson modeled much of the little details of Monticello after European influences as well, from his dumbwaiter...

To his 16-foot-deep ice house...

To his deceptive windows. One-story houses were stylish in Europe, so Jefferson made his three-story home look like it was only one story by playing with the windows.

Even the beds at Monticello were influenced by the French. Instead of free-standing beds, residents and visitors to Monticello slept in cubbies to preserve the room's architecture and use of space.

Jefferson wanted to preserve space elsewhere in Monticello as well. He thought that a grand staircase would only suck up space, so he included two of these high, narrow staircases instead.

Perhaps the most important lesson Jefferson learned in France was the art of French cooking. More accurately, the enslaved members of his household learned the art of French cooking.

They would catch fish from the river at the base of the mountain and preserve them in this pond until they were ready to cook them.

They also learned how to brew beer and make wine.

All of this took place in the tunnels under Monticello, or the "Crossroads."

When Jefferson died, he was buried on the grounds of Monticello. He didn't want his presidency to be included on his epitaph, as he never particularly enjoyed being president. Instead, he asked to be remembered as the author of the Declaration of Independence and the Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom (which allowed Virginians to practice any religion...or no religion) and as the founder of the University of Virginia.

Pearls of Teenage Wisdom

I was walking behind two teenage girls during a recent trip to a local mall. They couldn't have been more than 15 years old. At one point, one of them turned to the other and said:

"It's not that I'm closing myself off to all future relationships. I'm just taking some time to figure out who I am. I mean, who is 'Becky,' anyway?"

I wanted to tell her that "Becky" is a melodramatic teenager, but she didn't ask.

Ready for their close-ups

Barley spent some of his time in Minnesota playing with his cousins and his cousin/uncle (things get confusing in the dog world). We took them all to an amazing dog park in Eden Prairie, a city that is, apparently the best place to live. While the dogs were running around the dog park, Matt was interviewed by CNN Money for the video accompaniment to the story. Based on the Baltimore Orioles t-shirt he was sporting during the interview, it's no wonder his footage landed on the cutting room floor:

Barley, on the other hand, is clearly the star of the video. Pay close attention from the :59 mark to 1:04. I'm biased, yes, but I'm pretty sure he steals the show.

Den of Death

The men in Matt's family pride themselves on being great outdoorsmen. My father doesn't like picnics because there might be ants. It should therefore come as little surprise that I'm not a huge fan of taxidermy, and that my squeamishness makes me stand out in Matt's family.

On our recent trip home, I was happy to learn that Barley has taken after me in this regard. Matt's dad's "Den of Death," as it is affectionately known, made Barley just as nervous as it makes me:

Nuggets of Matt Brilliance

While we were in Minnesota, Matt's mom gave us a bunch of mementos to take home. I know I'm biased, but I think young Matt was about the cutest kid ever. Cases in point:

1. We were reading a story that young Matt wrote in elementary school. On the dedication page, he wrote, "To Matthew. Because he rote [sic] this book."

2. Another story young Matt wrote was called, "My life as a pickle jar." Even today, picky eater Matt hates even the smell of vinegar, so it shouldn't have been surprising that young Matt wrote, "I smell like vinegar, so everyone hates me." When Matt read that, he said, "A-ha! Even then I knew."

3. But my favorite moment was when Matt read some sort of science experiment that young Matt was probably quite proud of. He got to the conclusion at the end and proclaimed, "Well, duh, dumbass."

And miles to go before we sleep

Matt and I recently spent a total of nearly 40 hours in the car. We drove home to Minnesota and back to Maryland, a trip that usually takes about 17 or 18 hours each way, but which took us much longer because we had Barley with us.

That much time in a car is bound to make anyone a bit loopy. There are only so many rounds of 20 Questions or I Spy people can play. At one point, somewhere in the middle of Indiana or Ohio, Matt started making up song parodies with Barley's name. My favorite was "Barley Boy," sung to the tune of "Danny Boy":

Oh Barley boy,
Your fur, your fur is fuzzy.
Your eyes are brown,
And your bark is really loud.

After the fourth or fifth encore, however, even "Barley Boy" wore a bit thin.

As crazy as Matt and I may have gone in the car, we were nothing compared to poor Barley. Hours in the car without someone petting him drove him to grab the attention however he could:


And when he wasn't getting attention--or when he just couldn't articulate how uncomfortable he was--Barley let us know just how much he dislikes the car: